


Johnlock AU's

by PWeasley99



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Fluff, Ghost!Lock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mer!John, Pirate!lock, Sexual References, Sherlock AU, Stripper!john, Student!Lock, Teacher!John, Vampire!Lock, Who!lock, john watson au, johnlock au, may include some light smut later but we'll see, mystrade, rocky horror!lock, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5446523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PWeasley99/pseuds/PWeasley99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Johnlock AU's<br/>(the title basically says it all)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rocky Horror!lock

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I have fallen into an obsessive love of the crazy and wonderful Sherlock fandom and am very happy to be apart of it! I would be very happy if you would comment and and add kudos to my works and would be even happier if you could recommend some AU's that I could explore further! Thanks my lovelies and enjoy!
> 
> Additional Notes:  
> Frank n Furter- Sherlock  
> Rocky- John  
> Janet- Molly  
> Brad- Greg  
> Riff Raff- Mycroft  
> Magenta- Irene  
> I do not own Sherlock or the Rocky Horror Show and I do not own any of the characters either. Inspired by this art by reapersun:  
> http://tnpphillyrhps.tumblr.com/post/120776539279/rkoarmy-sherlock-rocky-horror-mashup-not

Lights flashed. Noises that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere whirred and clanked as Sherlock rushed about his laboratory, determined on his quest to make himself the perfect man. It had taken him years to decipher the formula, after spending countless hours hunched over his desk, sleepless nights and sweating over notes, he finally had the answer.

The newcomers watched on in a mixture of fear and awe as Sherlock put the final touches onto his experiment. Molly and Greg had come in out of the rain with a flat tire, completely unaware that Sherlock had been expecting their arrival, just as the stars had predicted. Mycroft had let them in without further ado and led them and Irene (who had been watching the exchange from the staircase) into the party. It took no time at all for them to be heavily dragged into the whole scenario before them. Greg had his arm around a shivering Molly, who was obviously feeling self-conscious about standing in her underwear in front of a small crowd.

At last, the experiment was complete. A deafening roar could be heard before the arms of the creature inside the coffin began to move. Slowly, the inanimate creature lifted itself out of the coffin and come into a standing position. Molly and Greg looked at each other in confusion as the small crowd burst into cheers of celebration. The creature, who had before been unidentifiable within the confines of the coffin, was now recognisable as human. A small, well-built man with short, blonde hair, slightly tanned skin and tight gold underwear stared around the room until his eyes landed on Sherlock, who was sitting on the edge of the coffin in a very suggestive position and smirking.

The mad scientist jumped off the edge and landed on the ground with a clop of his high heels and strutted over to stand in front of his creation. The small man gazed upon the scientist in wonder and Sherlock leaned slightly forward, studying his attractive creation.  
“Hm…” Sherlock murmured to himself. After several moments of pondering, Sherlock elegantly spun around, much to the surprise of everyone, and yelled “JOHN! His name will be John!” before spinning back around and pressing a firm but passionate kiss to John’s lips. They remained that way for a few minutes, each minute getting more feverish than the last, before Irene broke the silence by whispering to Molly.  
“Gorgeous, isn’t he? The master has been working non-stop for years to finish his little…‘pet-project’” she finished with a laugh and looked to Mycroft, who was standing in the corner, looking particularly repulsed by the excessive PDA that was on display in the middle of the laboratory. He noticed Irene staring and gave her a small, tight smile.

Greg noticed, with utter distaste, that everyone in the room seemed transfixed by the event that was taking place. Hell, some guy at the front of the crowd had his hand down the front of his damn pants trying to relieve himself! These people, whoever they were, were obviously insane. Whatever the cost, he felt that it was his duty to keep Molly safe.

Finally, after a few grunts and groans from both parties, Sherlock reluctantly pulled back from John, whose face was flushed and whose erection throbbed madly under the gold cloth that clung to his hips. Sherlock turned around, making no attempt to cover his own erection as he addressed his audience.  
“Guests, this night has come to a close. Please make you way to your sleeping quarters,” he gave John a seductive look. “And I’ll make my way to mine.”

As everyone exited the laboratory, Greg and Molly were bustled back into the elevator, but not before Greg caught one last glance of Sherlock being lifted up bridal-style by John, and carried to his, now to be known as their, extravagant bed chamber.


	2. Who!Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off S01E01 ‘Rose’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Sherlock or Doctor Who and I do not own the characters.

“Mrs Hudson?” John called as he exited the elevator and made his way down the long basement hallway, his shoes tapping on the cold, hard concrete with every step he took.  
“Mrs Hudson? I have a message for you! Where are you? Mrs Hudson?”  
Ok, even John had to admit that this was weird. Mrs Hudson was usually one to answer straight away. John often had tea with her in her small basement office at the department store. It was certainly strange and out of character for her not to answer John of all people.

He heard a shuffling sound come from behind a set of double doors and decided to investigate, becoming rapidly concerned for the well-being of his favourite handy-woman. He pushed open the doors and was suddenly struck with the unnerving feeling that he was being watched.  
“Mrs H? It’s John. Are you alright? I have a message for y—“   
Was that what he thought it was? Did that mannequin just move or was it simply John’s worried mind playing tricks on him? Either way, he knew that he wasn’t alone.  
“Who’s there?” he asked. No answer. Typical. John straightened his shoulders and continued to move further into the room, his seemingly calm demeanour faltered only by small movements in his peripheral vision that made him flinch.

Eventually, John’s hearing picked up a soft pat… pat… pat from somewhere behind him, like someone was trying to sneak up on him unawares. He turned slowly, carefully revising everything he learnt in training from his army days as he did so. Little did he know that no amount of training could prepare him for what he saw next.

Four mannequins had disbanded from their positions by the stone wall and were stiffly moving towards him. John felt his breath catch in his throat and he gasped for air. Then, for lack of anything better to do, he giggled.  
“Ok! Ok! You got me! Ha ha ha! Very funny! Scare the old army captain with your funny jokes… silly kids… now, where is Mrs H? I have a message for her.” But the mannequins did not stop moving, nor did they hesitate for a second at John’s words. They backed John up against the far wall and surrounded him, preparing for a slow and torturous attack. John suddenly realised that the situation was serious and stated to hyperventilate. He hadn’t trained for this! Whatever this was?!  
“Help! Someone! ANYONE! OH GOD!” John yelled, hoping that he could be heard. But it was no use. He was in the basement, and he hoped to god that Mrs Hudson hadn’t faced the same fate that he was about to face. He closed his eyes for the final time and accepted his death that was soon to come. If he concentrated hard enough, he could imagine the grim reaper gliding up the pathway of his life, reach the door and extend his bony hand in the direction of the doorbell...

Suddenly, he felt the sensation of warm flesh against his wrist and looked up. A man, possibly the same age as John, or maybe younger, looked at him with urgency written all over his pale face. His cheekbones could cut diamonds and his eyes were a beautiful shade of aqua-blue. He wore all black, from his jacket to his shoes, with a mop of curly black hair to match. He was a good-looking bloke, and John was instantly smitten. And when the stunning stranger spoke, his voice was just as beautiful as the rest of him. With a deep tenor that was both reassuring and urgent at the same time, he said a single word with enough momentum to nearly knock John off his feet: “Run!”


	3. Vampire!lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thinks he’s moving into an empty flat, only to discover that it is already inhabited by a very pompous vampire who doesn’t like to share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write a Vampire!lock one for a while, so here it is folks!  
> Also, this fic went for a bit longer than I thought it would, but I am still fairly proud of its outcome, considering it took me under an hour to write ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I do not own Sherlock or the characters.

“And here’s the key, John. I hope that you settle in well.”  
“Thanks, Mrs Hudson, I’m sure I will.” John started to climb up the stairs when he was suddenly called back by his new land-lady.  
“Oh! And one last thing, my dear. Just ignore all the strange sounds you may hear. It is an old house after all.”  
“Ah… thanks? Again?”  
And with that, John Watson was now part owner of 221B Baker Street, along with a mysterious renter whom John safely assumed didn’t live on the premises. He had assumed wrong.  
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......................................

After unpacking, John indulged himself in a cup of hot tea and sat on a seemingly well-used chair that was situated by the small telly in the living room. As he sipped his tea, he thought about how homely this flat seemed, yet, John always swore that he could feel a set of eyes watching him as he unpacked his army gear and hung up his clothes. It was an old house and looked like it hadn’t been used for years, although this chair and some of the other furniture showed indications that someone had lived here recently. The mysterious renter that was supposed to be his flatmate? But that was impossible, he thought. Mrs Hudson had told him that the man (consulting detective, she had told him, whatever that was) had died six months ago whilst investigating a murder case and had accidentally run into the murderer unprepared, via a severe miscalculation. He’d been stabbed twelve times in the abdomen and buried in a shallow grave in the park near Baker Street, where he was found by a sergeant of NSY on their way to work in the early hours of the morning. Two months later, the murderer was caught (via information from an anonymous source), the detective was buried properly and everyone went on with their lives. But, mysteriously, the rent for the flat kept being paid monthly, as per usual, and Mrs Hudson had no choice but to accept it.

John supposed that his tea needed some more milk, and hoped that Mrs Hudson had stocked the fridge before his arrival. He moved through the flat, sometimes sucking in his stomach to squeeze between pieces of furniture, which seemed to be clustered all over the place. When he finally entered the kitchen, after the arduous task of dodging and weaving through the living room, the strong, tangy aroma of copper struck his nose at once. It reminded him immediately of his army days, and he felt himself begin to limp with the bloody reminder. Death was not something that bothered John, not in the least. He had seen enough of it in Afghanistan to last his entire life time.

As he neared the fridge, the smell seemed to get increasingly stronger and stronger, until he was forced to cover his nose with the front of his shirt. Without hesitation, he forced open the door of the fridge only to come face to face with what looked like a scene from a slasher film. Blood covered the walls of the fridge and was hardened to a dry crust that caked the walls and looked as if it wouldn’t come off without putting up a fight. Even though panic and confusion clouded John’s thoughts, he still made a mental note to buy some heavy-duty cleaning product and a tough sponge. Bags of blood lined the shelves and severed body parts were jammed into the crisper at the bottom of the fridge. John took a step back in shock, only to collide with something hard.

He spun around and met the furious eyes of a pale man with sharp cheek bones and messy black curls atop his head that stuck out in all directions. The man smelt just as bad as the fridge, and John picked up the scent of death and formaldehyde seeping out of his pores. John stood stock still, unsure of what to do.  
“W-Who a-are you?” he managed to stammer out. The man tilted his head to the side and gave John a cold look that made the very blood in his veins freeze.

They stood like that for a while, before John finally got up the sliver of confidence he needed to probe this man further.  
“What are you doing in my flat?” he asked, becoming surer of himself by the second. He could feel the man’s frigid breath on his face. They were standing so close. It was making John feel slightly uncomfortable, what with the closeness, and being under the stranger’s penetrating gaze made John feel a bit week in the knees. Was he really feeling this way about a random stranger who had obviously just broken into his flat? He had no time to ponder over it, because the man spoke.  
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, John. But this is my flat. It has been for the last year.” The stranger studied him further, keeping his icy glare steady as he took in John’s appearance.  
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
“What?”  
“You heard me. I will not repeat myself.”  
“Oh… um… Afghanistan. How--?”  
“The way you present yourself, your stance and the way you acted when you deemed the situation you were in as dangerous.”  
John stared at the man in awe. The stranger went on.  
“You were an army medic. A captain too, I might add. But you were sent home when you got shot in the left shoulder. You now have a psychosomatic limp that ‘pops up’ every time you reflect on the war. My advice to you is to stop thinking about the war and it will go away all together --”  
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but who are you?” John’s sudden interruption earned him a glare from the pale stranger, before he turned and stalked into the living room. John followed close on his heels, desperate for information. The man sat down on the chair that John formally resided in and directed his eyes on John, hands steepled under his chin.

“You want information,” the man started. “And you shall receive it. My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my flat that you now reside in, so don’t think that I’m making any exceptions concerning my experiments now that we are flatmates. Oh, while you’re up, fetch me a bag from the fridge, I’m practically dying here!” He scoffed at his little inside joke that he knew John wouldn’t understand and waved his hand towards the ex-army doctor as an indication to complete the task he was set. John, reluctantly, fetched a blood bag from the fridge of horrors and passed it towards his ‘flatmate’. The pale man known as Sherlock studied the blood with a critical eye and gave John a quick smirk, before opening his mouth to reveal two, long, gleaming, sharp canines that descended from his gums. He made eye contact with John as he sunk his fangs into the blood bag and continued to drain it of its contents. When the bag was empty, he tossed it behind the sofa without a second thought. John stumbled back, horrified at what he just witnessed. It wasn’t possible!

Sherlock lazily rolled his neck and arched his back, stretching the muscles that had gone so long without proper use. As he stretched, his shirt rode up over his stomach, and John could clearly see twelve scars (made by a butcher’s knife) in the abdominal region. John gasped and staggered back further, desperate to get as far away from whatever this monster was.  
“Y-You’re that detective! And you’re a…a” John choked out. Sherlock glanced up to meet his eyes again and smiled, but this smile appeared genuine. It seemed to calm John down a touch and allowed Sherlock a moment to admire John’s sturdy appearance. If he really thought about it, he might even consider John attractive!  
“Yes. So, Mrs H told you about me, I see. Yes. My death was rather unfortunate, a ‘spanner in the works’ you could call it. Yet, she still lets me lead out my eternal existence here. Bless her old soul. I see why she allowed you to move in with me.”  
John looked at him questioningly. “And why is that then?”  
Sherlock smirked. “Because you ask all the right questions.”


	4. Teacher!John / Teen!lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs tutoring in order to pass biology and graduate with a perfect score. Happily, the young teacher’s aide, Mr Watson, is only too happy to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock- aged 17  
> Mr Watson- aged 19  
> I do not own Sherlock or the characters involved.

Sherlock Holmes excelled at all of the subjects he took. Well, he was a Holmes after all. He was quite content to be situated at the top of his classes and awarded many awards for his academic achievements, primarily in the field of chemistry. The only exception was biology. Sherlock’s old teacher, Mrs Hudson, had taught his class for as long as Sherlock could remember, but as the year dragged on, Mrs H’s teaching style started to grow dull in Sherlock’s eyes. Her frailness and inability to remember anything, leading her to repeat herself more often, was beginning to drive Sherlock mad! But he tried to restrain his foul mouth for legal studies class that was led by his brother, Mycroft (known as Mr Holmes to students and staff, although, much to Mycroft’s annoyance, Sherlock insisted on calling him ‘the British Government’ to get on his nerves). However, Sherlock’s biology class soon got a lot more interesting, when Mrs Hudson got herself a teacher’s aide.

Sherlock sauntered into class on Monday morning, similar to how an aristocrat would enter his own palace. But as soon as he entered through the doorway, he paused and sniffed the air. His superior sense of smell could pick up Playboy men’s deodorant, distinctly replacing Mrs Hudson’s familiar odour of lavender and sandalwood. Sherlock’s eyes swept the room and landed on a short, blonde-haired man with kind eyes sitting in Mrs H’s desk at the front of the room. The man was also looking back at Sherlock with a hungry glint in his eye, which soon passed when more students entered the room and sat in their usual seats.

Sherlock swiftly regained his composure and slumped in the hard chair of his lone desk at the back of the classroom. No one wanted to sit with him, and he made sure that he thoroughly insulted everyone who volunteered to the impossible task of being his desk-mate.  
He steepled his fingers under his chin and studied the man at the front of the class, who was busy being surrounded by the popular girls, whose efforts to flirt with the attractive new teacher were ultimately failing. Doctor-in-training, Sherlock thought. Planning on joining the army, teaching biology to gain a better understanding of the anatomy of the human body as well as benefiting the community with his newly-acquired knowledge that he chooses to pass on to the younger generation. Interesting…

As Sherlock retreated from his mind palace, he was shocked when he looked up and discovered the new teacher standing over him, staring at him intently, and with a small amount of concern, which soon faded away as the seconds ticked by. Sherlock glanced around the room to find that the new teacher had written work up on the board, which all the other students were deeply engrossed in. Sherlock calculated that he had spent at least half the lesson caught up in his mind palace.  
The man cleared his throat.  
“Um…hello! My name is Mr Watson, but you can call me John. Mrs Hudson informs me that you have been struggling with the subject matter and require tutoring. If you would allow me to help, I would be happy to offer my assistance.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long while, leaving Mr Watson feeling increasingly awkward, before cautiously nodding his head. John smiled and moved around to sit next to Sherlock.  
“Your last name is Holmes, I believe? I know your brother,” John said, trying his best to make small talk. Sherlock scoffed.  
“I know, he’s a pompous twit isn’t he. But you didn’t hear that from me.” John added, along with a wink. Sherlock smirked, biting back a laugh, and blushed, turning his head away from John so that the attractive teacher's aide couldn’t see. Unfortunately, John saw the pink flush creep up onto Sherlock’s cheeks. It was time to go in for the kill.

“So, about tutoring…” he began, but the school bell cut him off, indicating that the class had ended and it was time to go to next period. The rest of the students had already departed the classroom, leaving John and Sherlock alone. John looked a bit disappointed when Sherlock grabbed his bags and made for the door.  
“Hey, wait! I didn’t catch your name!”  
Sherlock turned back to look at Mr Watson with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.  
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Be there at 4 o’clock. I like it when people are punctual.” And with a wink in the teacher aide’s direction, he exited the classroom with a spring in his step.


	5. Ghost!lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8-year-old John Watson moves into an old house with his sister Harry and their parents. One night when John is sleeping in his bed, a small, young ghost known as Sherlock comes to him to warn him of a demon that is lurking beneath the house in the confines of the basement.  
> (A plot line that I came up with)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock- aged 7 (at time of death)  
> John- aged 8  
> Mycroft- aged 15 (at Sherlock’s time of death)  
> Jim and Irene- both in their 30’s  
> Harry- aged 13
> 
> I do not own Sherlock or the characters involved.
> 
> This story was inspired by a poem I made up at 2am (I take full credit for this poem and put copyrights on it- so don't touch without my permission):  
> Eleanor  
> By PWeasley99  
> There was a little girl,  
> Her name was Eleanor.  
> She had a hangman's knot  
> Hung right outside her door.  
> Late one night at midnight,  
> When everyone was dreaming,  
> Little Eleanor awoke to hear  
> Her little brother screaming!  
> Around her confined room  
> For the screaming she did check,  
> Until her door creaked open,  
> He was strung up by the neck!  
> A little ghost boy hovered by,  
> His eyes as black as pitch.  
> He observed the whole ordeal  
> And rasped "it's your turn now, you little bitch!"  
> His unearthly screeches filled her ears,  
> A mere ghost as he did pose.  
> But behind that smoky mask of white  
> It was clear the Devil had arose.  
> Eleanor's screams filled the room  
> As he dragged her by the scruff,  
> Then took her dear small brother down,  
> Muttering some incoherent stuff.  
> He hoisted up young Eleanor and rasped  
> "Any final prayers?"  
> But little Ellie shook her head,  
> Showing the white in her blonde hairs.  
> So Eleanor had met her end,  
> On the door of her very room.  
> And that said room still remains untouched,  
> Closed up like an Egyptian tomb.  
> But if you should happen to stay the night  
> In that house on Fernbank Crescent,  
> Bear in mind that your nightly stay  
> Will not be all that pleasant.
> 
> Enjoy the story my lovelies!!!

1926- James Moriarty brutally murdered his lover, Irene Adler, after he discovered that she was cheating on him with a female lover across town, who she would visit when Jim was at work. He slashed Irene’s throat and strung her body up with thick ropes (which he had brought home from work in preparation for the event) on the front porch before setting the house alight and shooting himself in the head in the basement. The house and the bodies could not be saved, all had gone up in smoke and flames.

1985- A new house over the vacant plot of land had just finished being rebuilt and the Holmes family moved in. Three months later, the younger Holmes boy, Sherlock, drowned in the creek behind the house. The police said it was an accident but the elder Holmes brother, Mycroft, believed it to be murder. No one listened to him. Prior to his death, Sherlock possessed a brilliant mind that was being plagued with horrible, otherworldly entities whilst living in that house. He claimed to hear whispered voices threatening the death of his family, feel heat radiating from certain parts of the house while it would be frigid in others, and physically feel a strange tapping coming from the locked basement door (which he said he felt time itself perfectly with the beating of his heart) whilst a woman’s pained screams filled his ears. Mycroft never believed him before his death. 

The boys’ father, with what minor power he upheld in the community, ordered the house to be condemned. The order was overruled by the judge and the house was simply locked up instead. The Holmes family relocated and made a new home elsewhere. Three years later, the house was put up on the market, not to be bought until 2002.

2002- 8-year-old John Watson moves into the old house with his elder sister, Harry, and their parents. He meets a small, pale boy by the lake, who’s studying algae with a magnifying glass. John tries to be friendly but he surprises the boy, who disappears behind a tree in panic. John chases him but he find that the boy is nowhere to be found. Discouraged, he makes his way up to the house when Harry calls him saying that his lunch is ready.

That night, he is visited by the boy, but he is not shocked to discover that he is a ghost (8-year-olds will accept anything remotely extraordinary), and Sherlock and John become fast friends. They talk for a while and giggle like they are both normal kids having a sleep-over, until Sherlock regretfully informs John that he has to retire to his grave, but will be back the next night. Before leaving however, Sherlock warns John to never, under any circumstances, go into the basement, as it was where ‘Jim’ lived. He didn’t expand on that and disappeared by jumping out of John’s window and vanishing into thin air.

(Sherlock was killed by Irene’s restless spirit drowning him in the lake, as she discovered that Jim had planned a worse fate for him after the boy had tried to unlock the basement, where Jim [now a demon] was resting, and had woken him up and sent him into a spiralling rage- this doesn't come up until later in the story when Irene appears to John, before Sherlock tries to stop Jim from hurting him, potentially putting himself at risk of a painful second death).

The next morning, going against Sherlock’s warning, John goes to investigate the basement, hearing whispers that seem to come from the walls that follow him to the basement door, getting louder all the time. A small, rasped singing voice echoes around the house as it sings a repeated morbid tune: “Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim’s coming to get him. The little boy with the heart so true, he nearly got the other one too!” John lifts his father’s bolt cutters, and using all of his boyish strength, he snaps the lock in two. One single, rasped inhalation of breath can be heard from inside before the door is forced back on its hinges and John is flung to the ground, his wrist snapping painfully from the landing impact. He barely has time to register what is going on before the darkness hits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a longer fic dedicated to this. It's called Fatal Attraction. Feel free to check it out :)


	6. Mer!John / Pirate!lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, the ship’s navigator, has gotten on the crew’s nerves for the last time. One night, he is sentenced to walk the plank, but is saved by a mysterious, not to mention beautiful, merman. Guest starring: Mystrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve thought about how I could write this without copying The Little Mermaid, but I think that I have found a way, thanks to a brilliant idea thought up by my Poppy over lunch.  
> I do not own Sherlock or the characters involved.  
> p.s. if you have any prompt or au ideas please feel free to leave them in comments for me to consider (i don't bite, i promise!)  
> Thank you to everyone who gave me kudos and thanks to all of my readers! <3 You are my motivation to keep writing.  
> Enjoy!!!

The ugly catcalls and insults of the crew filled his ears as he shuffled his way to the end of the rickety old plank. He had done so much for these people, save for the occasional snide remarks, which they usually ignored. But Sherlock knew that he had crossed the line when he offended the captain’s second-in-commend (and secret lover), Gregory Lestrade. This ship’s captain, Mycroft, had ordered for his brother to walk the plank in his plight to please the majority of his crew (as well as to defend the honour of his lover). “These are the risks that come with being captain, Sherlock,” he had said. “And I am intelligent enough to know where we’re headed without a navigator.”

Amidst the crowd (which didn’t include his brother, as he couldn’t bear to watch his little brother drown), Sherlock could hear the protesting of the ship’s nurse, Molly Hooper. He knew that she had feelings for him (which were not returned), but he knew that her words would do nothing to save him when he was standing on the edge of life and death, literally. He blocked out the noise, held his breath and jumped into the icy depths below.

He hit the frigid ocean with a deafening splash that was suddenly muted as he descended under the black waves. He sank like a stone, his limbs becoming limp as he allowed the dark, icy water to enter into his lungs, torturously filling them and replacing the air that was stored there. It was an unpleasant experience, drowning. So many uncomfortable and unwelcome sensations to deal with before it was all over. His vision swam as he tried to force his way back up to the surface, but the waves continued to pull him under, unwilling to release him from his prison.

Sherlock let his eyes slip closed as his vision darkened. He surrendered fully to death, silently willing it to take him away; anywhere that didn’t include an ocean or incompetent idiots…

Just before death had consumed Sherlock altogether, he felt two, strong arms wrap themselves around his waist and tug him up towards the surface. Oxygen met his face and then his lungs in a cold rush as he spluttered and coughed, spewing out the foul, salty liquid (Poseidon’s piss, he called it). When he had recovered from his coughing fit, he turned his head to catch a glimpse of his saviour, who still had his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s waist. To Sherlock’s surprise, his knight in shining armour was a man! He was strong, blonde, a bit on the short side, but above all, handsome!

Who was this man? Was he part of his brother’s crew? If that was the case, why hadn’t he seen this man before? And where was the ship? They must’ve sailed away and left their fallen ex-crew member to a watery grave, Sherlock thought. But he had managed to escape death thanks to this beautiful stranger.  
“You saved me,” Sherlock rasped, his voice still affected by the water that was once in his lungs. “Thank you. Who are you? What’s your name?”

The man smiled kindly and looked at Sherlock with eyes that were bluer than the Mediterranean. An arm unfurled itself from around Sherlock’s waist, leaving one arm holding Sherlock upright against the waves. The man’s index finger touched a small mark at the bottom of his own neck.  
“My name is hard to pronounce in your tongue, so call me John.” He spoke in a crisp British accent.  
“My name’s Sherlock. Why have you got your finger on your throat for?” Sherlock asked, his ingrained thirst for knowledge never ceasing to amaze him.  
“It is the only way that I can communicate with you without sounding like a dolphin,” the man explained with a small laugh. “That way, we can understand each other and come to an agreement. Do you want to live or die?” John looked at him expectantly, so Sherlock struggled to find his voice and answer. Damn! This man was gorgeous!

“I’d like to live if that’s alright with you.” Sherlock replied haughtily.  
John laughed. “Very well. Then I shall take you to The Island. Hold on to me.”  
Sherlock swam around and awkwardly situated himself on John’s back, gripping his shoulders in the hopes that he should not fall off. He jumped when something smooth slid between his legs and powerfully sliced through the water as John began to swim against the oncoming tide.

Sherlock looked behind him and was shocked to discover that John had a tail! Its scales shimmered the same blue as John’s eyes, and Sherlock was transfixed on the way it moved through the water. He had heard many tales of merfolk, but had never seen one himself, so he had no reason to believe in such nonsense. Now, he was riding on the back of one such legend towards a small island that materialized near the newly-glowing horizon. As the sun gently rose, Sherlock drifted off into an exhausted slumber, letting the lapping of the water and the steady beat of John’s tail lull him into dreamland.

Sherlock awoke on the sand a little while later. The sun was now fully risen, just sitting on the horizon and illuminating the waves as they rolled lazily onto the beach. Salty waves sloshed onto the shore, drenching his boots and trousers. He looked up to meet the blue eyes of his saviour, smiling softly down at him from where he was perched on the sand next to him. His face framed in sandy blonde hair and his muscles were framed by the early morning light. He leaned forward slightly, and Sherlock did the same. John closed the space between them and crushed their lips together in a chaste kiss, before he slid back into the ocean and retreated into its murky depths.  
Against all odds, Sherlock smiled. He was happy, because something inside him assured him that he would indeed see John again. And Sherlock was willing to wait forever.


	7. Stripper!John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's a stripper. He sees a beautiful man in the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took so long to update, but I've had other commitments, what with trying to get into uni and everything :) Hope you enjoy the last entry to my little collection of au's. XD
> 
> The playlist for this fic is as follows (and yes, I am aware that it is one song):  
> John’s dance- ‘Desire’ by Years and Years  
> ^^ if you haven't heard that song I recommend you give it a listen. It's pretty good.
> 
> This story changes POV, so I will alert you when it does so you don’t get lost :)

JOHN’S POV

It was just a job. An easy way to get money, if you had the skill. And John Watson definitely had the skill. After being in the army for over three decades, the thrill that came with danger was what kept John going. He yearned for something more than an early retirement; sitting at home eating frozen meals and watching the telly all day long. He wanted excitement, adventure. Exotic dancing gave him just that.

He was quite fit for his age. Not overly bulky, but he had a bit of well-toned muscle here and there. His sandy blonde hair was streaked with the odd grey highlight, but that was to be expected of a former army doctor.

An announcement from the stage manager reached his dressing room. Five minutes to show time. John sighed. Another night at the club, another repetitive routine and another measly pay. But it was worth it for the adrenalin buzz. He reluctantly got out of his chair, which made a loud squeak as he lifted his weight off it. With another low sigh, he re-checked his body make-up and his costume for tonight’s routine: an altered pair of his army trousers, slung low on his hips to reveal a tantalising peak of a tight, red pair of underwear. John had refused when the manager of the establishment had asked him to wear a thong. He was an army officer, and he still had his pride. The manager, Jim Moriarty, was not one that John wanted to get on the bad side of, but he absolutely despised how they offered little to no covering, and John liked his comfort, having gone so long without it.  
John gently stroked his hand along his toned chest, making sure that his scar was covered as much as possible. It wouldn’t do to give the crowd ugly to stare at while he was working so hard to please them with his dancing and all-round physical exertion.

When he had finally deemed himself ready, John exited his dressing room and headed side-stage. Every atom in his body was buzzing and he could hear the blood pumping in his veins. He experienced this every night, but somehow, tonight just seemed different. He looked past the sparkly blue curtain and out into the audience. All the regulars were there, as well as a few new faces. As he was about to stop lazily scanning the crowd and get in position, his eyes latched onto a pair of steely grey ones. The man who had caught his eye gave him a seductive smirk and held eye contact. His angular face, soft black curls and sharp eyes made John think he was witnessing an angel! The mood shifted, and John felt as if he couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to look away.

The music was what pulled him out of his trance. His routine was beginning! Slowly, he moved onto the stage. Every glide of his arms, flick of his wrists and twist of his hips was well-timed and practiced, and tonight, John performed based on muscle memory alone. His mind was still focused on creamy pale skin, dark curls and mesmerising eyes. Where was that man now? John scanned the crowd again, occasionally winking at the regulars who catcalled him. Why couldn’t the crowd just be a small one on Fridays?

Before he knew it, he had reached the pole at the end of the runway leading off the stage and through the audience. He dipped and spun, clutching onto the pole as the chorus started, swinging his leg around to lift himself up. John made another frantic attempt at finding the man from the height he was at now. No sign. Feeling a bit disappointed, John kept on dancing, eventually sliding down the pole again to unzip and shuck off his trousers. Sweat was covering his small, muscular body, and he quickly glanced down to see it his scar was still undetectable. It was. Barely. But the lights were flashing too much to see, going from purple, to blue, to red in short bursts of colour.

When he was finished dancing, the crowd applauded and whistled, throwing crisp pound notes onto the stage. John collected every last one, with an intent to spend it at Tesco the next day, and scurried back to his dressing room. He slumped back down in his squeaky chair and dumped his earnings on the make-up table. How much tonight? John began counting. One… Two… Three… Four… Just when John was about to pick up the fifth pound note, his hand landed on something soft. A folded napkin. When had he grabbed this? John went to throw it away, but hesitated when he saw pen scribble on the inside corner. He opened it and read the inscription, written in a messy, blue fountain pen.

‘Stage door. 5 minutes. Don’t be late. –SH’

 

SHERLOCK’S POV

Sherlock Holmes was not one to frequent this kind of establishment. It was strictly all a part of his plan to catch the prime suspect of a double homicide, who had managed to elude him up until tonight. And now he was standing outside in an alleyway, his belstaff done up all the way and his blue scarf tied tightly around his neck. Why was he doing this again? Oh yes. Because of him. That short, blonde dancer who had caught his eye. Ex-military. That much was blatantly obvious to Sherlock (as well as incredibly hot). Army doctor and officer, sent home due to wound that could’ve been fatal but wasn’t. This soldier was strong, then, and had a will to survive. One of his legs also had a slight defect, but it was only minor. Psychosomatic then. This army doctor also had a taste for danger, which Sherlock found himself craving more of as his days grew monotonous.

Suddenly, the stage door opened, dragging Sherlock from his mind palace. The attractive blonde stepped out into the dim streetlight and Sherlock smirked. God, he was breathtaking. A small, sheepish smile graced his thin lips and his soft, blue eyes crinkled at the sides.  
“So…” he said. “What happens now?”

Sherlock advanced on the man at a rapid pace, and before the man could so much as utter another sound, Sherlock had slotted their lips together in a fierce kiss. When they finally game up for air, both men were breathless and achingly hard.  
“I’m John, by the way.” The small man laughed.  
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock said, before grabbing John’s hand and whisking him off to a waiting cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, yeah, I know, short ending and all, but my fresh ideas well has all but run out and I've just done a massive exam and ugh! life!
> 
> so forgive me for that, but I still hope you liked it :) please read my other stories and kudos and comments are much appreciated. Follow me on tumblr @lovepotterwholockuniverse


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